


a song that I had only sang to just a few

by hotdogharvester



Series: "every breath you take" is not a love song [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: F/M, Implied Masturbation, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, One-Sided Attraction, Self-Hatred, Stalking, Vomiting, Xenophilia, better safe than sorry, there is no rape in here but it is the backstory to the Bad Future Stuff so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-01-16 08:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18517609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotdogharvester/pseuds/hotdogharvester
Summary: The DJD takes notice of a strange ally to the Autobots. Nothing happens for a long time.





	1. Chapter 1

“Commander?”

Kaon’s voice piped up from the hall. Tarn paused before opening the office door for him. Kaon only called him by his title when something was wrong.

“I’ve made a breakthrough with the Bevel profile. No, don’t get up. You’ll want to be sitting for this.”

The door slid shut behind Kaon. He had a data pad in one hand but made no move to hand it over. Tarn shifted in his chair.

“Well?”

Kaon pretended to clear something from his vocalizer.

“The tiny scrap of good news is that Bevel is definitely dead and he definitely died when we eliminated him. The person…the person using Bevel’s social media profile to access The Big Conversation definitely isn’t him. But it also isn’t a Decepticon.”

“Go on.”

If Kaon had optics he might have darted them nervously around the room.

“I took a little dive into Bevel’s financial history. Sure enough, shortly before we caught up to him, he sold his information to an aggregator, probably for drug money. That information made its way to a web development and data analysis office funded by the Autobots.”

Tarn cocked his head.

“That’s not so terribly surprising. Worthy of condemnation, but not surprising. It would be strange if the Autobots weren’t sneaking into Decepticon web space.”

“It’s not an Autobot.”

“Pardon?”

“It isn’t an Autobot using Bevel’s profile.”

Kaon fiddled with the data pad and grimaced.

“Commander, there’s no easy way to say this. It isn’t a Cybertronian. It’s barely even a person. They have an organic on staff: a human. They’ve let a _human_ into a space that’s supposed to be for Decepticons only.”

Tarn steepled his fingers, mentally planning a visit to the firing range to vent this new frustration.

“Is that so?”

Kaon handed over the data pad at last. Tarn skimmed it; he didn’t really take in any of the information on it but there would be time for that later. He placed it on the “to read” stack of documents and turned his gaze back to his second in command.

“This web development office. Is it very far out of our way?”

“Unfortunately, yes, sir. It would make for a significant detour.”

“Hm. As grating as this is, I don’t think it’s worth upending our current schedule. Take a note, please, that we should visit this office whenever it becomes convenient. Keep monitoring ‘Bevel’s’ profile. Send a few camera drones, if you can. The very small ones. Tesarus just made a dozen more so we can spare some.”

Kaon nodded in assent, his mouth set in a grim line. Tarn pressed the button to open the door.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Kaon.”

By the time Tarn was finished with his own paperwork and on his way to the firing range he couldn’t even remember what species the little intruder was. Every time his shots found their target—and it was rare that he missed his mark—he imagined a different animal screaming in pain, begging in repulsive and incomprehensible languages for him to be merciful.

• •       •

By the time the camera drones found their target Tarn had completely forgotten about the human collaborating with the Autobots. Several weeks had passed. They had eliminated two more traitors on The List, necessary but unremarkable executions. During Kaon’s quarterly appraisal (high marks as usual; Kaon always did exemplary work on all fronts) the issue of an organic spy came up, but only briefly.

“One of the drones successfully infiltrated the office in which the little creature works. The good news is this particular group doesn’t handle much sensitive information so I feel safe lowering the priority of this already low priority case.”

“And the bad news?”

Kaon shook his head.

“No real bad news. The, ah, human is still logging on to The Big Conversation periodically but isn’t doing much on the site. Just clicking around. Reading, but never posting. Most of their time seems to be consumed with busywork and cleaning up spreadsheets. I don’t know if that speaks well to it as a worker as much as it’s a condemnation of the incompetent Autobots with which it works.”

Tarn nodded, the tiniest bit interested. The moment passed.

     • •       •

It wasn’t until his team tracked down and executed Keystroke that Tarn really began to think about this human agent. Keystroke hadn’t been in the best of standing before he betrayed the cause. Still, if he hadn’t stooped so low as to sell information to the Galactic Council, he might never have come to anyone’s notice. Betraying the cause had brought all his small failings into harsh relief.

Keystroke howled and whined, his legs reduced to filaments, his lidless optics rolling in their sockets. Tarn held him steady, murmuring in his audial with all the intimacy of a lover.

“Did you know that there is a human—an organic, yes, one of _those_ —working in a backwater Autobot office that has a better track record than you? An _organic_ of all things that is timelier and more efficient than _you_? You were constructed for administrative work. You neither fulfilled your intended purpose nor rose to something higher. You couldn’t even turn your damned progress reports in on time. An animal is outpacing you, right now. Are you not ashamed, Keystroke? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

The traitor only moaned. Tarn stepped back and motioned his smallest compatriot forward. It was Vos’s turn to deal the killing blow.

As Vos removed his face, Tarn imagined disposing of the human. He imagined having the grace and patience to do kill the thing quickly. He wondered if it would have the capacity to be honored when he, the commander of the Decepticon Justice Division, did the deed himself.

• •       •

Tarn was taking a rare break when he learned the human had musical inclinations. He got a ping from Kaon containing three words:  _ The animal sings _ .

They had a brief back and forth about it. Kaon sent him a small data file culled from the drones’ footage. One of them had found its way to the human’s habsuite at long last, which was apparently the only place it dropped its professional pretensions. Tarn watched, transfixed, dimly aware that he was glad no one else could see him so riveted by something that should by all rights be repulsive to him.

The human didn’t look so small amid furniture sized to match its needs. He knew it was smaller than Kaon’s wretched turbofox and had a brain the size of his fingertip. But, seeing it dance and sway around its living space, hearing it hum and warble as it cleaned and organized, it almost seemed like a person. Like an intelligent entity with inner thoughts and desires. A little thing with opinions and secrets and, somehow, a love of music.

Tarn had no idea if what it was singing even had words but it certainly sounded nice. The rhythm was simple but serviceable; it was hard to go wrong with four/four time, even in organic songs.

When Tarn downloaded the human language pack he did so in private. Not everything had to be shared with the team. There wasn’t anything inherently suspicious about the action. He felt the faintest blush of shame during installation, but that wasn’t unusual. He felt shame about a lot of things.

He felt considerably more shame when he realized that this human—not an it, or even a he, but a _she_ , like Nickel, though he would never in a million years say that where she could hear it—had a predilection for love songs. It didn’t mean anything. If the simple phrases roused him in some way he could hardly be blamed. Rather…he _could_ be blamed, but no one else needed to know about it. He could perform his private penance for reacting the wrong way and that would be the end of it. If he felt anything positive for this creature then it was a test; it was proof that even the most righteous Decepticon _could_ fall, _could_ be tempted by grotesquerie, and that he didn’t need to agonize over it more than he did anything else. The feelings weren’t normal, but then he wasn’t normal and he never had been. Tarn excelled in spite of his inclinations and he would continue to do so.

•       •       •

Kaon launched himself away from his computer terminal with a cry of disgust that shortly morphed into hysterical laughter. Tarn waited for his second in command to calm down before asking what this outburst was about.

Kaon told him.

Tarn consciously lowered his internal temperature before his cooling fans could betray him in this terrible, incredible moment.

He steepled his fingers, grateful for the millionth time that the mask concealed his most visceral reactions.

“Is that so?”

A hundred abominable scenarios manifested in his mind, but the truth was so disgustingly pretty. Kaon beckoned him over, a rictus splitting his face, and Tarn beheld a live video feed of the human agent self-servicing to images of Cybertronians: her mouth hung wide, her skin glistening with sweat, her strange and lilting voice ringing with an unmistakable passion.

•       •       •

Megatron defected. The whole structure of Tarn’s existence—and, deeper down, of Glitch’s existence—crumbled to nothing.

•       •       •

Tarn reconsidered certain aspects of his personal philosophy.

•       •       •

Tarn gathered his team together for the first meeting since The Incident. They were glad to see him. It warmed his spark to see them glad. It reassured him. Everything had changed but he still had them.

“I think it’s time we made a significant detour,” he began, and only Kaon knew enough to smile at this declaration. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rejected chapter names:  
> "How I Met My Kidnapper"  
> "My Strange Abduction"  
> "Messatine's Creepiest Home Videos"  
> "[Help!] The Girl I Like is a Filthy Organic (´･ω･`)"

The first complete thought that crosses your mind when you wake up in a strange bed is that you must be in a hospital. The fluorescent lights are certainly harsh enough for a medical facility; they aren’t doing your splitting headache any favors. There’s a twinge in the side of your neck like you’ve had a flu shot. You stare up at the distant ceiling for a long time before you’re awake enough to have another thought.

Your second complete thought is that this place can’t be a hospital because the bed sheets are too nice. What hospital has double-thick, micro-modal sheets? They’re soft and plush under your aching fingers. Aching. Why? Your fingertips are sore as if you were climbing. Or striking at something. One of the nails on your right hand is cracked.

The color of the fabric is striking as well: a rich, distinguished purple. It smells faintly of plastic, as if just recently removed from its packaging. Glancing at the nearest wall—a dull, matte gray surface, gloomy and stark—just brings further confusion.

Your third complete thought is the detached realization that you’re about to be violently ill.

Stomach roiling, you roll over and find a large metal bowl next to you on the bed. You’re just coordinated enough to grab it, sit up, and hang your face over the lip of the bowl before the gagging kicks in. It’s disgusting, but you ride out the spell without puking through your nose or getting splattered. After it’s done you wait, mouth open, just in case it starts up again. Your temples are throbbing like stab wounds.

“You must be feeling dreadful.”

The voice is deep and inhuman. There’s a certain vibration from Cybertronian vocalizers that only very skilled speakers can mask, and this one isn’t trying. It’s not a voice you recognize, though. You visited the office’s med bay once ( _But this isn’t a med bay, is it?_ ) during orientation and once again to see a sick colleague but no one there sounded anything like this. 

You lift your head from the bowl to see that a sizable mech has entered the room. Or maybe he was there all along. Two burning red optics glow from behind the Decepticon symbol that constitutes his face. Oh. Oh no. You don’t know who he is. You _should_ know who he is.

“I can’t remember how I got here,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

He nods.

“That tranquilizer has quite the hangover. Or so I’m told.”

“Tranquilizer? Did something happen to me?”

A very different kind of sick feeling is sparking in your gut. You’re alone in a strange room with a strange mech wearing a very familiar and frightening symbol on his face.

“I should speak to my superiors. They should know that I’m…”

You’re not sure how to finish that sentence.

“Where am I, exactly?”

“You are aboard my ship, the _Peaceful Tyranny_.”

After a moment he adds, “You’re safe, if you can believe me.”

_Peaceful Tyranny_. The name tells you everything you need to know. Peace through tyranny: the most dangerous oxymoron in the universe. Peace through tyranny; death to organics. That ship belongs to Megatron’s most feared team of operatives. You are not safe. Safety is not a possibility here.

“You’re DJD?”

He nods.

You recall what little you’ve read about the Decepticon Justice Division and a fresh spike of nausea pierces your gut. They don’t take prisoners.

“Well,” you say, making direct eye contact, “I can only tell you my name and designation. I know enough to know that begging and bargaining won’t help me. So just—”

He chuckles. It’s a horrible sound for a robot to make. His optics are all but sparkling with mirth.

“That’s what you said before,” he says.

“Before?”

He approaches the bed and sits down. The mattress depresses dramatically under his weight and you have to take a firm hold of the puke bowl to keep it from spilling. After a moment’s consideration he mass converts and edges close enough to touch you. He’s still so big and heavy it’s like having an earthmover sidle up for a chat.

“How much can you remember? Do you remember meeting me?”

“No.”

You close your eyes for a moment and try to stay centered.

“I don’t even remember leaving work. It was almost the end of my shift and…that’s it. I can’t remember anything after that. Why can’t I…did I hit my head? What did you do to me?”

Every spare ounce of will you have is going into keeping your voice steady. Not that it matters, most likely. You can be as brave as you want and it won’t stop the DJD from doing whatever it is they’re planning on doing. The fact that you are still alive is by no means a point in your favor.  

“Anterograde amnesia is one of the most common side effects of the tranquilizer we used to, ah, subdue you. I had hoped you would retain something of our first meeting, but no matter. I was prepared in the event that your short-term memory doesn’t return. Here.”

He proffers a data pad. It’s puny in his hand: the size of a large laptop to you. There’s a video queued up on the screen. It shows a still frame of your apartment, shot from a high angle. Hands shaking, you hit play.

•       •       •

The apartment was sized for a minibot, which made it three times the size of any apartment you’d had on Earth. You were wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt, feet snug in a pair of slippers instead of the sensible oxfords you always wore to the office.

The front door’s entry chime rang.

You shut the door of the refrigerator and crossed the small kitchen space to the entryway, an unopened can of soda in hand. Nothing about the scene—except for the fact that there _was_ a scene, and there never should have been a camera anywhere in your apartment—betrayed what was about to unfold.

The camera wasn’t positioned quite right to show the front door. You watch yourself walk out of frame for a moment and then spring back, staggering, eyes blown wide in shock. You wouldn’t have had to know who the Con stooping low to enter your apartment was to know that you were in grave danger. The lurid purple Decepticon symbol on his face was warning enough.

“Hello there, _Bevel_. You’ve certainly changed since last our paths crossed. You’re much smaller now! If memory serves, my team tore you limb from limb several stellar cycles ago. So, of course, you can imagine it was a surprise to my communications officer when you logged into The Big Conversation after such a long absence. Quite a feat for a dead mech to get internet access, wouldn’t you say? It’s not the first time someone my team eliminated has come back from the dead, but it _is_ the first time we’ve found them lurking in the miscellaneous forum.”

You stumbled back against the fridge.

“Sir, I think you might have the wrong address,” you said.

The intruder crossed his arms and stepped closer.

“Hardly. We have things to discuss, you and I. ”

“I can only tell you my name and title. I’m just an administrative assistant, I’m under the protection of–”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re much more than that.”

“I really truly am not. The police are…”

You glanced quickly at the communicator lying on the kitchen table. The intruder looked as well.

“Don’t bother,” he hissed in a tone that made your skin crawl, in the past and in the present watching it happen again, and the communicator spat out sparks and smoke.

“There’s no need for that,” he continued. “I didn’t come here to hurt you. Take a deep breath, little one. You’re not going to die today. Are you listening? Good. As you have no doubt guessed, I am Tarn: commander of the Decepticon Justice Division. I’ll spare you the usual monologue. It doesn’t apply in this instance. You might, however, be wondering just why I’ve deigned to pay you such a _personal_ visit.

“At first I was furious that the Autobots had allowed an organic into a space that rightfully belongs not just to Cybertronians but to Decepticons only. A grotesque violation, even for them. My team and I whiled away many an hour discussing how we would pull you apart. But then…I took a closer look. You’re quite a sorcerer with paperwork, aren’t you? One of the most exemplary clerical assistants I’ve ever seen. When I realized I had accrued a grudging respect for an organic, of all things, I nearly purged my tanks. For a time that only strengthened my resolve that one day I would seek you out and kill you.

“And then…and then I heard you sing.”

You never sang anything outside the apartment. Your stomach turns, and you can see yourself having the same realization not so long ago in the video. The Decepticon Justice Division bugged your living quarters. Why? For how long? If they heard you singing then what _else_ did they hear?

“There’s no need to shake like that. I was quite serious when I said I didn’t come here to hurt you. There’s universal nobility in the appreciation of music, wouldn’t you say? You perform so naturally. Totally without affect or pretense. A fine soloist, even for an organic. _Especially_ for an organic.”

Tarn stepped closer. Your past self craned her neck a little to look up.

“You have bewitched me, human,” he whispered.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said.

“Of course you didn’t,” he purred. “That just makes you all the more appealing, no? If every one of your species were even half as charming as you, then…well. That kind of speculative thinking is for fools.”

Tarn dropped to one knee to get even closer. The can of soda was shaking in your hand. No…you were shaking the can. Purposefully.

“You’re…really not going to kill me?” you asked.

“No. I’ve come to uplift you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m recruiting you.”

“Wh–WHAT?”

“I see great potential in you: potential that is being squandered by the Autobots. I think—I _know_ —that in the right hands, with the right guidance, you could be extraordinary. You deserve better than what they can give you.”

You pointed over his shoulder.

“Tarn, who is that?” you asked, voice bright with panic.

In the present, your stomach drops, realizing what you must have decided to do.

Tarn started to turn, saying, “Vos, I did tell you to stay in–” before you hurled the can of soda at his head. It ruptured on impact, spraying carbonated liquid in two sharp streams all over your intruder. He jerked back in surprise and you bolted around him. You were out the door before he finished whipping around to follow you.

Somewhere out of frame, you screamed, and the scream cut off in an instant.

Tarn wiped soda from his mask and shoulders. A much smaller mech—purple, mouthless, one spindly hand clapped over your face—hauled you back into the room. He croaked out something unintelligible while you struggled against him, every muscle in your body clenched in fear.

“Well Vos, you were right. She _did_ try to run. I suppose my expectations were a little high given the circumstances. Give her here.”

Tarn took you in his arms and you yelped, still struggling in vain to free yourself.

“That was quick thinking, even if it was pointless. And messy. You’re lucky you’re so charming otherwise. I wanted to give you the chance to join me willingly. I know it’s unlikely, but I thought, why not? Nevertheless, I anticipated a reaction like this. It’s all right. You just don’t know any better. Hold still. This will sting, and I don’t want it to hurt any more than it has to. Vos, if you please?”

You didn’t need to hold still with how strong Tarn’s grip was. Vos withdrew a hypodermic needle from a hidden compartment and flicked it, readying the plunger. You kicked and yelled and none of it made a bit of difference. Tarn kept your upper body immobile as Vos jabbed you in the neck. Then you did freeze, momentarily startled into compliance by the pain.

“There we go,” Tarn purred. “That’s a good girl. What a novelty you are. I’m _so_ looking forward to having you close by from now on.”

You were mumbling something too quiet for the camera’s microphone to catch. Tarn looked directly into the camera and winked.

•       •       •

The screen goes black. Tarn pulls the data pad from your limp hands.

“Be not afraid,” he whispers.

You’re too afraid to look at him.

“Why am I…I shouldn’t be here. I’m not supposed to be here.”

“On the contrary. There is nowhere else you should be.”

You’re paralyzed. There’s just too much to take in. As if from somewhere far away, you can hear yourself talking in a flat tone.

“Yooouuu are violating…SO many laws by holding me here. SO many laws. Not even getting into uh galactic law, the local statutes…not even just LAWS, isn’t this…against…”

You fiddle with your hands and cast your gaze at the nearest wall. Your surroundings inspire no hope whatsoever. The room is lightly furnished: huge for you, small for most mechs. The only thing remotely close to a weapon is the puke-spattered bowl in your lap.

“Decepticons?” you mumble. “I’m a human? And I thought uh, I thought the point was…uh…”

Tarn taps his pointer finger against your lips and you flinch.

“I’m going to stop you there. However you might feel in the moment, and whatever you think you might know, you lack the necessary context to make any appropriate statements about the Decepticon movement. You shouldn’t be worrying about that anyway.”

His claws transform away with a _shk_ noise, leaving blunt fingertips behind. You want to move away when he brushes the hair away from your face but you’re still too scared.

“Look at you,” he coos. “Such intelligence and precision in such a fragile form…you’re a little miracle, aren’t you? You could be the final proof that there is no god in this universe. Nothing with any kind of order or sense would let something so precious be bonded to something so temporary. So…gossamer.”

You swallow. You’re still not looking him in the eye. Tarn leans even closer and trails his fingers down to your jaw.

“I’m having a psychotic break. I’m dreaming. I…”

You raise one arm to your mouth and bite down hard, grunting in pain when you release it.

“What are you doing?” Tarn demands.

“Waking myself up. This worked when I used to have night terrors in high school.”

You slap yourself in the face and wince, but Tarn seizes your hands before you can continue.

“Stop that.”

“No. I’m having some kind of neurological event and I’m not going to let it just keep happening.”

Before Tarn can restrain you further you slam your forehead down against his knuckles. It doesn’t wake you up, but it does make the room spin and heave and sends fractals of pain pattering through your skull. Tarn wraps a hand around your neck; his digits are so big his pointer finger doesn’t fit under your chin, tipping upward to press against your cheek. Your survival instinct overrides the panic and you freeze again.

“ _Stop. That._ I will not tolerate you acting so foolish. If you’re going to have a mental breakdown you’re not going to self-harm as well. Pull yourself together.”

Having a Decepticon’s hand around your throat is just one thing too many. You whimper. You can’t help it. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and your vision blurs. When Tarn removes his hand from your neck and moves to pull you closer you can’t stop yourself from crying, “No. No!”

He’s undeterred. You can no more resist the gentle pressure of his palm on your back than you could the weight of a steamroller. Tarn shushes you as he pulls you flush against his frame, the sharp angles of his chest digging into your flesh. Your arms aren’t pinned but it’s not like you can push away. Too scared to struggle, you let him hold you. The hand that isn’t keeping you still is rubbing up and down your back.

“Shhh. Relax. Stop reacting. Stop trying to think your way out of this and just be with me in this moment. All right? Listen.”

Tarn starts humming. It’s not a tune you’ve ever heard before but it feels familiar somehow. The spirit of it, that is. Four long notes, then two more long, then four short. Six long, four short. A slow, flowing melody, his hand caressing you in time to the sounds. It’s pleasant. It isn’t doing anything to convince you that this is really happening.

“What are you _doing_?” you ask.

“Soothing you.”

“Why?”

“You’re distressed. ”

His touch is soft, and you find yourself soothed in spite of everything. This goes on for several minutes. Tarn stops humming but doesn’t let you go.

“This is all new to you, I know, but you need to understand how much I care about you. I only wish I had found you before you wasted so much time with those miserable Autobots. Seeing you devalued and underestimated by those fools and knowing what a refined creature you really are makes me feel a kinship with you. A rhyming in our souls. You might not feel it yet but you will.”

There isn’t really anything in your life up to this point that could have prepared you for one of the most notorious killers in the galaxy saying he feels a connection with you.

“Oh my god, this really is happening, isn’t it?”

You’re shaking again. Tarn pulls away at last and regards you, cocking his head a little. He cups a whole half of your face in one hand.

“You really _are_ upset,” he says.

How can you even respond to that?

“Hm. What does that expression translate to…eyes bigger than your stomach?”

Something about the way he says that has cold, slimy tendrils of dread rooting in you as if in damp soil.

“What…what do you mean?”

“Never mind. We’ll come back to that. I’ll leave you alone for a while to adjust to your new living space. When your digestive system settles I can get you some food. You can try to escape but even if you somehow make it out of this room you won’t get far. So…try to relax.”

Tarn strokes your cheek one last time before standing, mass converting to his full size, and walking toward the huge sliding door set in the far wall. He pauses, hand hovering just in front of the touch pad that’s too high for you to reach without a ladder. He turns back to look at you. You stare at him, dumbfounded, feeling nothing but fear and foreboding. The silence stretches on and on.

“This room is under constant surveillance,” he says at last. “If you need anything, just yell.”

The door slides shut behind him and he’s gone. You’re alone, but not _alone_ , and as soon as you’re able to stand you go searching for the cameras you can’t see but know are trained on your every movement.

**Author's Note:**

> the 4/4 song she was singing was in fact "I Want It That Way" LMAOOOOOOOOO


End file.
